Going Back
by Tuch
Summary: Lindsey has issues beyond the evil hand variety, and Angel needs his help on a case. Warning: very angsty.


This is my first "Angel" fanfic, so I'd appreciate any feedback you can take the time to give

This is my first "Angel" fanfic, so I'd appreciate any feedback you can take the time to give. Positive and negative feedback is welcome. Flames are not. I haven't been a fan of the show for long, so please forgive me if a few details are fuzzy. I've given it an PG-13 rating for naughty language. The story is set after the second-season finale and contains spoilers up to "Dead End."

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. I wish I did. "Angel" would be all Lindsey all the time. Joss Whedon owns them all except for the demon. She's a product of demon folklore with a little literary license on my part. 

Lindsey pressed the half-empty glass of scotch to his forehead, feeling the cool condensation dampen his flushed skin. How many glasses of scotch had he downed? Six? Seven? Fuck. Who cared? He was a big boy now, and the bartenders in these little hole-in-the-wall bars didn't care if you drank yourself into a puddle, as long as you had the cash to cover it. Even that was in short supply, though, now that he was no longer wading in Wolfram & Hart blood money. 

Lindsey swallowed the rest of his drink, picked up his guitar, and made his way to the stage. Intoxicated patrons barely acknowledged his presence as he strummed his guitar. He didn't sing, though. It was too much of an effort, and his tongue was too numb to bother. But his fingers seemed to know their way around the strings, and before long it was just him and his guitar, shielded from the rest of the bar by a thick blanket of chords and sweat. He was oblivious to a lot of things, but especially to the eyes watching him from the smoky darkness. 

Angel asked himself again why he'd flown all the way to Nevada to sit in a dirty dive and listen to a drunk play guitar. The answer was simple: Cordelia's visions had told him to. But he hated lawyers, especially _this_ lawyer, and his skin itched at the thought of having to deal with him again. His last conversation with Lindsey had included him telling the lawyer to never come back to L.A. Now here he was, purposely tracking him down. 

The song ended, and a few scattered patrons gave some half-hearted claps before returning to their drinks. Lindsey climbed down clumsily from the stage and weaved his way to the bar, where the owner paid him $75 in cash. It wasn't much, but it would fuel up his truck and replenish his scotch supply. Lindsey wadded the money into a ball and shoved it into his jacket pocket. He stepped into the warm night air, and all the alcohol he'd consumed punched him in the head like an angry street fighter. He tottered on the steps, but he managed to right himself and stumble to his rusty old truck. He tried three times to make the key fit into the tiny keyhole before he felt cool fingers yank the keys out of his hands. He turned to see Angel towering over him. 

"Didn't anyone ever tell you not to drink and drive?" the vampire asked. He worked his features into the most menacing look he could manage short of slipping into game face. Lindsey knew he should be afraid – Angel had wanted to kill him for a long time – but the liquid courage running through his veins gave him a boost. 

"Fuck you, Angel. Our business is over." He lunged for the keys, but Angel neatly sidestepped him, and Lindsey fell against the side of his truck. 

"Apparently, you have death wish."

"I'm touched that you care," Lindsey sneered, sarcasm oozing out his pores along with sweat and alcohol. 

"Don't misunderstand me, Lindsey. I don't care if you wrap yourself around a tree. I care about the innocent family you're going to take with you." He dodged to the left as Lindsey made another grab for the keys, and Lindsey fell face-first against the asphalt. 

Angel picked him up by his collar and dragged him to the back of the parking lot, where his black Chevy rental was waiting. "Come on. I have some questions to ask you."

The beginnings of real fear began to prick Lindsey in the back of the neck. Where the hell was Angel taking him? A whisper of reason told him that Angel wouldn't kill him – not in an unprovoked attack when he was too drunk to defend himself. A more cynical whisper told him that after what he'd done Angel had every reason to rip his face off. 

"What about my truck? And where are we going?"

"The truck is fine. And I'm taking you to my temporary office, so I can find out what Cordelia's vision means." He threw Lindsey into the front seat of the Chevy. By the time he was settled into the driver's seat, Lindsey was out cold. The ride home was silent except for the sound of the engine humming and Lindsey's labored breathing. Angel tried not to glance at the unconscious form next to him, but it was hard. Lindsey grunted and fidgeted restlessly, but his eyes stayed closed. Angel fought back the disgust rising in his throat like bad sushi. 

Why did he hate him so much? Of course, there was the whole Darla thing, and the fact that Lindsey had once worked for the most evil law firm on the planet, but Angel knew in his undead heart that there was more to it than that. He hated Lindsey for the complexity he added to his already-too-complicated life. If it hadn't been for Lindsey's change of heart about the blind children and his help in destroying Wolfram & Hart's human parts factory, Angel could mentally relegate him to the human shit pile and be done with it. But nothing could change the horrors Lindsey had been responsible for, and now Angel fought with himself over whether to tear his throat out because he was a pile of scum-sucking waste or because he could have been so much more. Where Angel single-mindedly seeked redemption and forgiveness, Lindsey had sold his soul for a comfy office with a view, throwing away the chance for the redemption like an angry fiancee chucking an unwanted engagement ring. 

His train of thought derailed when the motel came into view. He almost missed the entrance, and he swerved into the parking lot. The jostling woke Lindsey from his scotch-induced slumber, and it was all he could do to keep his stomach contents in check. After a few minutes of awkward stumbling, he found himself seated on a lumpy bed in the middle of a hotel room only slightly cleaner than the bar he'd been in earlier. He didn't notice much else, since the room didn't have the decency to stop spinning long enough for him to observe his surroundings. 

"A motel room?" Lindsey asked. "Your office is a motel room?"

"There aren't a lot of options way out here in the middle of nowhere."

"So, where are your friends?" Lindsey asked. 

"Out looking for you. We split up to save time. They should be back soon. I called them when I saw you at the bar. Now, enough chatter. What do you know about this demon?" He held up a rough sketch of a woman with long black hair, cream-colored skin and Asian features. She looked like a cover model for Cosmo rather than the bloodthirsty demon Cordelia's visions revealed her to be. Lindsey had trouble focusing, but he recognized the woman. 

"Why do you want her?"

"Because she's responsible for the murders of four men in Los Angeles, and I need to catch her. Do you know anything about her?"

"What makes you think I would?"

"Because Cordelia's vision had you superimposed over the bodies, that's why. Now tell me what you know." Angel grabbed Lindsey by the throat and slammed him backward on the bed. It was probably an immature move, but it made him feel better -- until Lindsey rolled over and puked on the already-grungy bedspread. Lindsey made no move to clean it up, so Angel got a rag and cleaned up the mess, cursing the day he met Lindsey McDonald. 

The two men were quiet for a while. Angel staring at Lindsey, willing him to talk, and Lindsey staring at the ceiling, willing himself to not throw up again. Angel was surprised by the physical difference in the young lawyer. His Armani suit was replaced with tattered jeans, a flannel shirt and hiking boots. His usually perfect hair was tousled, and five-o'clock shadow cloaked his face. 

Lindsey was the first to break the silence. 

"OK, I'll tell you what I know about her."

Angel was surprised. He'd been sure he'd have to pry the information out of him – maybe with a crowbar. 

"I'll tell you what I know," Lindsey repeated. "Just let me sleep this off." His eyes closed, and he drifted off to sleep. Angel decided that it wouldn't hurt to leave in the morning. Tomorrow was supposed to be an overcast day, so he could get away with being outside in daylight. Angel removed Lindsey's mud-encrusted boots and placed them on the floor under the bed. He surprised himself with the gesture, but he didn't have much time to contemplate it when he heard Cordelia's voice behind him screech, "Oh my God! What did you do to him?" He turned to see Cordelia, Wesley and Gunn staring at him. 

Angel explained the events of the last 45 minutes. Wesley paced the cramped room. "So, he does know the demon who killed those men," he said.

"Yeah, so he says. He's even willing to help us find her."

"Why?" Gunn asked. 

"I don't know. And I don't care, as long as we find her before she kills anyone else."

* * *

The plane touched down, and Lindsey immediately remembered why he hated L.A – the smog, the crowds, the lousy public transportation … the evil lawyers who were going to make gloves out of his skin when they discovered he was back in town. The plane ride had been quiet. Cordelia, Wesley and Gunn hadn't said much to him, which was what he'd expected. Angel had limited himself to throwing eye daggers his way, which was also what he'd expected. Part of him got a rise out of the fact that he could irritate the vampire so much. 

For once, the weather forecast had been accurate, and the cloud cover seemed poised to swallow the West Coast. His hangover was compounded by the pressure changes, but he didn't feel too bad, considering. 

The overcast day was a huge break for Angel. He left Wesley, Gunn, and Cordelia with Fred to investigate other leads, while he and Lindsey drove to the Hyperion. Lindsey took a seat in a chair near the door, and Angel whipped out a stack of photos he'd … borrowed from the L.A.P.D. They were all photos of dead men soaked in their own blood. All the men had had their hearts and livers ripped out of their bodies. There was no sign of forced entry into their homes and no physical evidence. Lindsey tried to keep his face neutral as he flipped through the photos. He'd seen these pictures before -- different men, of course, but the same theme. He handed the pictures back to Angel. 

"I've seen dead people before," he said. "Now, what do you want to know?"

"For starters, who is this woman and what is her game?"

Lindsey inhaled sharply. He'd thought he was through with demons and vampires and buckets of blood. But the blood was still on his hands, and he knew he'd never get it off. 

"Her name is Madame White. She gets off on marrying men and then ripping out their organs. But she likes to torture them first. Those men didn't die quickly." The last sentence was low and soft, and he chastised himself for the catch in his voice.

"So, how do you know this trash?" Angel asked, his intense gaze never leaving Lindsey. 

"I…I defended her four years ago for a series of homicides. The jury took 40 minutes to return a not-guilty verdict. I was brilliant."

Angel wound up for a punch that would have sent Lindsey into the back wall, but he pulled back when he saw the dead expression in the other man's eyes. Lindsey wasn't congratulating himself. He was sticking a dull knife in his own stomach and twisting it slowly. Well, he deserves a little guilt, Angel thought. Actually, he deserved a lot of guilt. Who knew how many killers he'd helped set free?

Lindsey jumped up from the chair. "I know what you're thinking, and I don't need your shit. I suppose it's OK for you to spend a century or so killing, torturing and mutilating people, isn't it, Mr. holier-than-thou vampire with a soul?" His voice cracked under the strain of Angel's unspoken accusations, but he didn't stop to regroup. "Well, screw you. I told you what you wanted to know, so good luck finding her. I don't even know why I came here." He turned to leave, but Angel caught him by the arm. In a fraction of a second, Lindsey was on his back. He swung his leg up and nailed Angel squarely in the gut, causing the vampire to stagger backward. Lindsey got to his feet quickly, and the two circled each other like boxers fighting for a title belt.

"Look," Angel said, "If you want to go back to being a drunk nomad, that's your business, but you're not leaving until you help me find this sicko you put back on the street." 

"You can't make me do a damn thing," Lindsey said. 

Suddenly, he pulled a wood stick he'd stuffed into his back pocket – just in case. "But I bet I can make you do something." Lindsey lunged at Angel, aiming the makeshift stake at his heart. Angel dodged to the right, and the wooden stick bounced harmlessly off his shoulder. In a rage, he slammed Lindsey's head as hard as he could into his knee. After a few solid blows, Lindsey slumped to the ground. What the hell was he thinking? Angel thought. Did he really think he could take me out with a stick? He felt a movement behind him and turned to see his crew watching him. 

"Can't you boys play nice?" Cordelia asked.

Wesley asked, "Did I really just see him try to stake you?" 

"That's what it looked like," Angel said, "but I don't think that's what he was trying to do. He didn't swing nearly hard enough to drive it into my heart. I think he was trying to get me to kill him."

"Why would he do that?" asked Fred, who had been standing behind Gunn. 

"Maybe he really does have a death wish after all." Angel glanced at Lindsey's prone form, and then back at his crew. "Why are you here?"

"Cordelia had another vision," Wesley said. "It led us back here."

"Here? Why?"

"The vision was about Lindsey," Cordelia said. She knelt by the lawyer's side and pressed her palm to the welt that was beginning to form near his temple. "You're supposed to save him." 

Angel snorted. "I already tried that, and it didn't work, if you recall."

"You're supposed to save him," she repeated, and the tone in her voice left no room for argument. She stroked Lindsey's hair, and a single tear slipped down her cheek. She was obviously remembering part of a vision, and Angel didn't want to know any more about it. 

* * *

Angel sipped his bag of blood slowly. Lindsey would be regaining consciousness soon, and he still didn't know what he was supposed to do. Lindsey had been responsible for too much pain for Angel to just put it behind him, and Lindsey clearly didn't want his help, anyway. Still, what if Cordelia was right? If Lindsey's soul really could be saved and Angel simply walked away, he would be no better than the man whose hand he'd cut off months earlier. Angel sighed. The maddening thing about Cordelia's visions was that they often made issues fuzzier than ever. 

Gunn tapped him on the shoulder, and Angel broke from his reverie. 

"Where's sleeping beauty?" Gunn asked. 

"In my bedroom, sleeping off a few punches to the head."

"No he's not," Gunn replied. "I just checked."

"Don't be ridiculous. I've been sitting here for the past hour. I would have noticed him come out." Angel pushed himself out of his chair and walked into the bedroom. Sure enough, the bed was empty. The window was wide open, letting in a sharp breeze. A series of sheets tied to the dresser flowed out the window and down to a second-floor fire escape. Another sheet led down to the street.

"Sonofabitch," Angel muttered through clenched teeth. He turned to Gunn, who was standing by the open door, and said, "Tell the others I'm going out." With that, he jumped out the window and mimicked Lindsey's path down the sheets. 

Within minutes, Angel was winding his way through the streets of L.A. His senses were on full alert, and his mind raced. Where would Lindsey go? Back to Nevada? Maybe. He wouldn't put it past the little shit to disappear like an unguarded wallet. But something in Angel's gut told him that Lindsey was still in the city. He wandered in and out of back alleys and main streets, letting his Spidey sense lead the way. Twenty minutes later, he found himself outside an old warehouse in a grungy section of town. The wind had kicked up considerably, and the storm that had been hovering over L.A. all morning threatened to break. Raindrops fell from the sky and left minuscule water marks on Angel's black trenchcoat. He was about to move on when a high-pitched, feminine screech shattered the silence. 

Angel kicked open the warehouse's wooden door and took the steps two at a time, following the sound of the screech. He stopped in front of a large room filled with crates and old industrial equipment. Everything looked normal – except for the large, writhing demon in the center of the room. Its fangs dripped green ooze that sizzled as it hit the floor. Golden eyes blazed in the darkness, and brown-gray tentacles flung themselves wildly through the air. Angel wrinkled his nose. The stench of rotting flesh battled for supremacy with the warehouse's natural mustiness – and won handily. He wasn't entirely surprised to see Lindsey there, too. Apparently, Lindsey was doing a good job of pissing off the demon. Angel hid behind one of the crates and observed the scene playing out before him. 

"I thought this was what you wanted?!" Lindsey screamed. "I thought you got a charge out of tearing men apart?"

"But you don't love me," the demon replied. Her tone was almost a whine. "It's satisfying only if you love me."

"Are you serious? I'm offering you my liver and you want love? What kind of demon are you?" Lindsey asked. "OK, fine, I love you. Happy now?"

The demon paused. Her tentacles retreated under her long silk dress, and her voice seemed to purr. "Prove to me that you love me," she said. Her yellow eyes flickered, and Angel could see Lindsey's Adam's apple leap. 

"Prove it how?" Lindsey asked. 

"Don't be coy. You know how." The demon's fangs retracted into her mouth, and her eye color melted into chocolate brown. She looked every bit the temptress in Angel's sketch, and he whistled softly. His stomach did a nauseating flip when he saw Lindsey's hands move nervously over the buttons of his shirt. OK, Angel thought. I've seen enough. 

He lifted a piece of sharp metal from one of the discarded pieces of equipment and hurtled it through the air. It plunged into Madame White's torso, and she let loose an ear-shattering scream. In a heartbeat, her tentacles, fangs, and yellow, flashing eyes were back. Angel leapt out from behind the crate and threw himself at the demon. They fell to the ground, and Angel slammed his fists into her face while trying to avoid the dripping ooze and thrashing tentacles. 

"What the hell are you doing?" asked Lindsey. 

"Saving your life, you ungrateful prick," Angel said between blows. He managed to get in a few good shots, but the demon was clearly gaining the upper hand. She slapped him with one of her tentacles. His head snapped backward along with the rest of his body, and he flew into a pile of crates. Madame White jumped on him and continued beating him. Angel tried to fight her off, but it was like fighting ten demons at once. 

"I'd eat you," she whispered, "but I like my food warm. So instead I'll just kill you." She bared her fangs and was about to plunge them into Angel's abdomen when a scream erupted from her lips and he felt her grip on him loosen. He took the opportunity to disengage himself from the tentacles and leap to his feet, and when he did, he saw what had made the good Madame scream. Lindsey was holding a flaming piece of wood to the demon's head, making her writhe in agony. Within minutes, she was reduced to a pile of ashes on the warehouse floor. 

"Her kind can't stand fire," Lindsey said, blowing out the flaming chunk of wood. Angel glared at Lindsey, not sure if he was more annoyed that Lindsey had been the one to defeat the demon or that he now owed him for saving his life. But before he could say anything, Lindsey walked past him and out the door. Angel shook off his surprise and followed him. 

"So, you're just going to leave?" Angel asked. 

"There's nothing more for me to do here."

"You could explain why you were about to let that demon turn you into fast food. Or why you tried to get me to kill you earlier today. And don't say you don't know what I'm talking about. I heard you ask that demon to kill you."

Lindsey looked as if he was about to argue, and then all the air rushed out of him in a gust of indifference. Both men were silent for a long time, and the only sound was the now torrential rains that pounded the building's flimsy roof. Finally, Lindsey spoke. 

"It's the only way I can make things right," he said. His voice was low and hollow. 

"What does that mean?" Angel asked. 

"Madame White was my first."

"Your first what?" Angel was beginning to feel like he was playing a game called "Guess Why Lindsey McDonald is So Fucked Up."

"She was the first demon I ever defended. Before that it had been slimy executives ducking the EPA and rich guys who couldn't keep their pants on around call girls. But one day Holland walks up to my desk and says, 'How would you like to move up to the big leagues?' If I say yes, I defend something conceived in the very womb of hell. If I say no, my career is over. I thought about it all night, and when the sun rose, I called Holland and told him I'd take the case." Lindsey paused, but Angel didn't interrupt. He was on a roll, and Angel didn't want to ruin his talkative mood. 

"I knew those men died horribly, but I didn't want to ruin my career. I thought it would get easier, and it did. It got so fucking easy." He ran a hand through his thick brown hair and turned away from Angel. "Nothing I ever do will save the people she killed, or the people killed by all the other demons I got off. And nothing I do will erase the looks on the faces of their loved ones. They need justice." 

For a brief moment, the anguished faces of everyone who ever suffered because of him passed before his eyes, flooding his capacity to think. It was the most agonizing experience of his life, even more painful than when Angel sliced off his hand. But, perversely, he didn't want it to end. Because when it hurt, he felt like he was making amends. 

Angel watched Lindsey slide down the wall, his palms pressed against his eyes, and his own past rushed back to him -- particularly, the last night he'd spent with Darla. 

"So," Angel said, "You think your death will wipe the slate clean?" Lindsey didn't answer. He continued to focus on something behind his eyes, something Angel couldn't see. 

"It doesn't work that way," Angel said, a little more forcefully. "I should know. I tried obliterating myself the night I practically begged Darla to take my soul." 

The sound of Darla's name rolling off of Angel's lips got Lindsey's attention, and Angel wondered briefly if it was the right tactic. But he couldn't stop now. He told Lindsey all about the night with Darla, how he'd hoped the other vampire's coldness could numb him from the inside. How he thought destroying his soul would make everything OK. 

"But it didn't," Angel continued. "Because I realized the problem wasn't with my soul. The problem was with ignoring it."

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Lindsey said. "With all this talk about souls you'd think I was in a goddamn Church. I don't know if I've ever had a soul, and, even if I did, it's too late!" He stopped talking before the tears that had pooled in his eyes threatened to overflow. 

"Look, I know a thing or two about working for redemption. You were right back at the Hyperion. I spent more than a century doing things that would make you queasy, and now I'm trying to make things right. But the only way I can do that is if I'm alive and working at it. The only way you can make up for what you did is by sticking around and helping other people. Getting yourself killed won't bring those people justice – it'll only be an easy way out for you."

Angel couldn't believe the words that were pouring out of his mouth. Who would have thought that he would be working so hard to save Lindsey, of all people? He didn't know if his words were having any impact, but he couldn't stop. Lindsey was so much like himself ten years ago, wandering aimlessly, torturing himself for horrors he couldn't take back. Before Pylea, Angel hadn't seen his own reflection in 300 years. But now, he could see it staring back at him, clear as spring water, in Lindsey's eyes. 

Lindsey stood up and walked toward a grimy window, which was getting a much-needed cleaning from the rain. It will probably rain all day, Lindsey thought. His mind flashed briefly to his truck, which was still waiting for him in the parking lot of Bob's Bar, then he looked back to the vampire standing behind him with his arms folded across his chest. He seemed to be waiting for something. Lindsey let himself be calmed by the steady rhythm of the rain pelting the window and wondered what his next move should be. 

He could go back to Nevada and his truck and forget any of this ever happened. He'd been making some pretty good change barhopping with his guitar. But the thought of doing that made his chest tight. Of course, staying in L.A. wasn't much of an option, either. What if Angel was wrong? What if he couldn't help anybody, and what if his soul was beyond redemption? And the fact that it would be only a matter of time before Wolfram & Hart claimed their pound of flesh (and then some) didn't make him eager to settle down. 

"I'm not sure what I'm going to do next," Lindsey admitted. He wasn't used to being so honest – with himself or anyone else – and the words stumbled over his tongue. His natural cynicism warred with something he hadn't allowed himself to feel since he was a child: hope. For years, he'd listed the word in the same category as all the other nasty four-letter words. But now, it dug itself out of the pile and made the back of his throat tingle. 

"You could stay at the Hyperion," Angel offered. "I've got plenty of room."

"Thanks," Lindsey said sincerely. "But I have some loose ends I need to tie up. I need to go pick up my truck." 

Angel's eyes narrowed. 

"I'm serious," Lindsey said. "It was my father's truck. I can't leave it behind." 

Angel wasn't sure if he believed him, but he shrugged his shoulders. He'd done what he could, and now it was up to Lindsey to decide whether he wanted to step into the light or continue wading in sticky shades of gray. 

"I'll come back," Lindsey said, backing down the stairs, "I promise." He finished descending the stairs and left the warehouse, letting the door Angel had busted slam behind him on the way out. Angel watched him go, sadness and hope colliding inside him like drunken mosh-pit dancers. Would he ever see Lindsey again? he wondered. 

And if he did, whose side would Lindsey be on? 


End file.
